my father
This is going to be a long, emotional, and familiar journal entry I've typed/written some variation of since grade school. Why am I doing this? Partly to vent, perhaps seeking answers, and if it helps someone else in the process, all the better. My father, for lack of a better term, is a pussy. This was not at all apparent to me growing up, since he was frequently absent, and when around, a complete terror. One of my earliest memories is of him screaming in my face, a TODDLER, for some mistake I made in the bathroom. I was scared, confused, and traumatized to say the least. Some things might have happened before that, but I've no recollection, and I spent the first two years of my life living with my grandparents. Many nights of slammed doors, children crying, and police visits. Worst of all, after he had done his "work", he'd go on hour long tirades about how it was so unfair how he was treated and viewed as some monster. It was like insult to injury, and I did...